


the light of falling stars

by LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alien Castiel (Supernatural), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Aliens, Dean/Cas Tropefest 5k Mid-Winter Challenge, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by a Movie, Language Barrier, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Stranded, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 13:57:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10515144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch/pseuds/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch
Summary: … when Lieutenant Dean Winchester and the two ships under his command engaged in combat with a Seraph squadron. Two army ships were destroyed, while one fighter, presumably Lt. Winchester’s, made a forced landing on a nearby uninhabited class D planet after triggering the emergency protocol. The ongoing search has not produced conclusive results. Lt. Winchester is classified as missing in action…





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the deancastropfest mid winter 5k 2017.
> 
> I nearly screamed when the info for this challenge crossed my dash since I majorly suck at writing long fics and here was finally a challenge I could join in. So my heart felt thanks go to Jojo and muse for running this. I had a lot of fun!
> 
> And huge thanks to the wonderful [marisondetre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mariesondetre/pseuds/mariesondetre) and [Elizabeth1985](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth1985/pseuds/Elizabeth1985) for looking this over and bringing it into shape. You’re awesome<3!
> 
> The story is very loosely based on the 80s sci-fi-drama “Enemy Mine” (which in retrospect is a big tropefest in itself). I loved that movie as a kid and wanted to use it for an AU for a while now. I’m glad this challenge finally gave me the last push to write it. Hope you enjoy!

 

 

_Jesus, why have these goddamn alarms gotta be so loud?_

He can’t _think_ over all that noise. The left wing has been damaged severely by the last attack of the Seraph squadron. He’s lost sight of the other two fighters on his flanks. The ship launches the emergency protocol and all he can do is hold on and try to keep the descent as smooth as possible.

The ground punches him like a fist, crunching the front of his ship. For long minutes, he just breathes. The inhale is hitching into a panicked sob every few breaths. After a while, he gets it under control, and his lungs gobble up the oxygen greedily, but the panic still lies in wait close under his skin.

The door opens on the third try, with a shove. Before the controls conked out with a pitiable last glimmer, he made sure the atmosphere on the planet wouldn’t kill him. The air is humid and carries a hint of sulfur, and the first stumbling steps tell him gravity is a bit light but he stays down just fine.

He scrapes his few belongings together – a handful emergency rations, a knife, a gun, some rope and the medical kit – and throws them into his backpack, before he sets out into a random direction. The first sun has set a while ago and the second one will be gone soon, too. He’s got to find shelter and water.

A steep decline leads into a crater that looks like the site of a massive detonation. In its center lays a Seraph ship. It has to be the one that took him down.

_Serves that creepy little fucker right._

He crouches on the edge of the circular hollow and bites his cheek. Go around? Go down there and see if the thing’s still alive? If it is, kill it, if not, loot the ship? His fist clenches around the gun and the metal bites deep into his skin. Then he decides.  

He skids down the slope. Fine black gravel rustles under his boots. No movement in or around the ship, but that doesn’t mean anything. Those guys are sneaky bastards, famous for their traps. More than one battle has been lost because the army underestimated the Seraphs. His pulse picks up with the anticipation of a fight and the prospect of coming face to face with an enemy he has only seen on sketches. Few people who encountered one of the alien warriors lived to tell the tale.

The ship at the bottom of the pit is in a worse condition than his own. The left wing has been ripped right off. Only shattered pieces are left of the pilot cabin. Smoke rises from various dents and fissures.

He takes another step closer, listens for any kind of sound. The last reserves of adrenaline pump through him and a fine layer of sweat coats his skin. If that fucker’s still alive, he wants to look into its eyes before he kills it –

He doesn’t hear the Seraph approaching.

Long fingers close around the hand holding his gun and become a vice. An arm slings around his neck and pulls him back, slow, almost lovingly. The crushing force on his windpipe increases just like the painful grip on his wrist. The fight is over before it begins.

He lets go of the gun.

 _This is how I die_.

A weird calmness sinks into his skin when he realizes how completely outgunned he is in an open fight against his enemy. The knowledge sinks down through his muscles, settles in his bones. Two regrets emerge from the eerie quiet of his mind:

_Sammy will never know where my body lies._

_I wish it would kill me face to face._

Closing his eyes, he waits for the final blow.

Seconds tick by. He can hear it breathing, a harsh and foreign sound, garbled like an old recording.

After a small eternity, the Seraph grunts under its breath and pushes against his back.

_Maybe he will be granted his second wish after all._

He turns and lifts his head, one part stubborn defiance and one part curiosity.

The sketches are wrong. Most pictures show a creature with a lion’s head and four arms, much taller than a man, with blueish skin and reptile eyes. A hideous creature, deadly and _other_ , a killing machine.

This being looks disturbingly human. First, it stands about his own height. The skin of the naked torso stretches over muscle and bone and if it weren’t for the intricate designs that lack the artificial vibe of tattoos, he couldn’t tell it apart from his own.

The face is full of clear cut angles and bold curves, the eyes huge and glowing in deep blue. His gaze drifts to the space behind the Seraphs shoulders where black wings rise proud into the approaching dusk. Blood, dust and small chunks of debris tarnish the feathers.

_How can something so deadly be so beautiful?_

The Seraph’s patience with his ogling comes to an abrupt end. It shoves him again and points to a bag a couple of feet away.

_Prisoner of war and pack donkey, Dean Winchester at your service._

 

***

 

After a few hours of walking through the misty jungle, they come across a stream and follow it to a clearing. The Seraph stops and nods. Relieved, Dean lets his luggage fall to the ground and goes over to drink, while his captor marches around and inspects every square inch.

Dean is watching it from the corner of his eye. The Seraph wears black pants made from a fabric Dean doesn’t recognize. It looks thin but has to be robust given the line of work. The last rays of light touch the black wings that shimmer blue in places.

Back straight and brow furrowed, the creature isn’t done with its rounds.

“Fucking Seraphs”, he mutters. The head of his enemy snaps in his direction. Dean catches its gaze and puts every ounce of aversion he can muster into his stare. The Seraph stares back. Something flickers through its eyes, too fast to put a name on it.

While he drinks and washes his hands his captor finds a few twigs and logs and begins to build a fire. The second sun just gets swallowed by the horizon and the dark creeps deeper into the clearing. Dean stands and stumbles into the nearby trees. A condescending low sound travels over from the fireplace.

“Yeah, yeah”, Dean grunts. “Just taking a leak, don’t worry.”

 

***

 

The second day starts out so fucking cold Dean awakes with a shiver. He’s reaching around and finds an arm, stops himself just barely before he turns over to curl around the heat. His eyes pop open so fast his head spins. Snatching his hand back, he glares at the Seraph who sits two feet from him and seems to be completely unfazed by the cold.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean grates out and it falls from his lips with much less acid than he’d gone for.

The fire’s out and Dean scrambles to his feet to find a few more brambles to get it going again. Who knows when one or two of the suns can be bothered to produce some warmth. Who know how days work here for that matter.

With the fire crackling, he dives into his backpack and finds one of the five energy bars he owns. He decides to only eat one half. Better start rationing.

After a hasty wash-up under the Seraph’s unwavering scrutiny, he plops down in front of his captor and sighs dramatically before he points at himself.

“Dean.”

If we want to survive this shithole, he tells himself, we should at least be able to communicate. He’s got no idea if Seraphs speak English, but he sure as hell doesn’t speak Seraph- _ish_.. Seraph-inian? Whatever.

The creepy stare is back and Dean wriggles uncomfortably. If this creature decides he’s not worth the trouble, it could kill him with its bare hands. The thought runs down his spine like ice and Dean tries for a trembling and probably unconvincing smile.

It’s met with a deeper frown that scrunches up the face of the creature. Dean fights to keep the smile in place and waits.

“Caaa-sstiiii-eell.”

The Seraph points at itself like Dean did and says its name extremely slow. Like Dean’s too dumb to understand him otherwise. _Oooo-kay._ Dean gulps down his sarcastic comeback and holds out his hand.

“Hi, Cas.”

The Seraph doesn’t move, so Dean reaches over and fishes for its right hand, before he grips it. Cas (Dean will _not_ use that longish name with the 25 syllables, thank you very much, and while he’s at it, he drops the _it_ and gives in to think of Cas as a – male – person) lets Dean shake their combined palms, all the while squinting furiously. Dean pointedly doesn’t look at the long and elegant fingers that curl hesitantly around his palm. An uneasy shiver is building between his shoulder blades but Dean couldn’t say if it’s fear or some kind of fucked-up kinky curiosity his libido is cooking up. Cas takes a sharp breath. Dean shakes his head and takes back his hand.

“So what do we have here, Cas, hmm? An uneasy truce, I’d say. Not sure why you let me live, so I’ll just assume you’ve got some secret agenda or you just want the work force.”

The Seraph tilts his head. Dean shuts up.

They leave after that to look for something edible. Cas leads the way and Dean tries hard to focus on their surroundings and not on the firm ass that moves under the thin fabric right in front of him. When he rips his gaze free for the fourth time, Cas stops.

Dean’s estimation for time is shot to hell, but he thinks they’ve been walking half an hour when the trees recede and give way to an open plane. Fine black sand mixed with bigger rocks stretches to the horizon, dotted with craters and small hills.

Cas walks over to one of those bumps and crouches next to it. The ridge is plastered with big shells that remind Dean of the giant tortoises he’d once seen in a museum. They’ve long been extinct on earth. He passes Cas to search for living specimens.

A roar shakes the earth beneath him, rattling his bones and thrumming in his ears –

and a hard tug on his arm hauls him on his ass. Razor sharp teeth clap shut around the space he’s occupied a second before. Dean has time to grate out “What the fuck?” before the dark green head of a monstrous snake reels back into the bottom of the crater.

Dean stands and pats the dust from his pants as he tries to get his cool back. Cas looks like he bit into a lemon, like he’s debating if he had been better off with just letting Dean get eaten. Dean doesn’t wait for Cas to make up his mind about it.

He holds out a hand to help Cas up in way of saying thanks and sets out again. This time he gives every single one of the hills a wide berth.

An hour later they get back to their makeshift camp with a tortoise hanging between them. Cas killed it with a single punch.

 

 

**Week 2**

The sky comes down by midday (or whatever time it is – both suns stand high before black clouds barrel down from all sides and swallow the light). At first Dean thinks it’s hail that crashes into the trees all around them. One of the projectiles puts a dent into the earth right next to his right foot.

Freaking _meteors_ , ripping holes through the leaves and spewing soil like grenades.

Dean still stares at one when Cas storms over to him, grips Dean’s arm and pulls him under one of the bigger trees. Stones still get through, chipping pieces off the bark, and it’s a miracle they don’t get hit.

They cower close to each other and Dean will deny it even under torture but he’s glad Cas is there with him. Thirty minutes later the interlude is over. The black clouds open like a curtain and present the now-familiar yellow sky.

Cas marches over the clearing with determined strides. When he reaches the tree line, he looks over his shoulder. Dean, somewhat learning to translate the different kinds of stares, follows.

 

***

 

They build a shelter from the shells.

Dean builds it, that is, while Cas sits around and judges Dean’s progress. The Seraph passes the time with pointing at random things and lilting the Enochian – which is what Seraphinian is called officially – words.

Dean grunts back the English translation and tries out Cas’ expressions, but they have too many weird consonants and he never gets it quite right. The constant frown on Cas’ face deepens then, and Dean hurries to busy himself with his construction.

The next meteor storm comes three days after Dean has put the last shell on the wooden scaffold. They sit under the roof and Dean wishes he had paid better attention in school when they talked about the old religions, because he sure as hell would have liked to pray then.

The shelter holds and when the storm passes, Dean high-fives the reluctant Seraph with a sly grin.

 

***

 

Cas is an uptight asshole and clearly thinks humans are way beneath him (no surprise there, Seraphs always claimed to be a superior race), but other than that, they get along fine. Dean wracks his brain to remember bits and pieces he knows about their culture, most of which is cobbled together from ancient legends anyway.

As a kid his grandma told him Seraphs didn’t have genders and that they were made and not conceived. Well, Dean doesn’t know about the reproduction part, but Cas feels male to him, so _he_ it is.

Then there’s the thing about emotions. Rumor had it that Seraphs weren’t able to experience human emotions and they sure live up to that in battle, when they strike without hesitance or mercy. But here, in close quarters, Dean sees Cas look wistfully into the fire, and one time, when a big shell lands on Dean’s foot and he screams high-pitched before cursing the thing, he swears he’s seen a smile on Cas’ face.

At the moment Cas sits on the other side of the fire and twitches with his right wing. Dean has seen him doing that a lot lately, but he didn’t pay much attention. Now it’s making him antsy and when Cas just doesn’t stop, he grunts out “Would you mind?”

Cas’ stare zeroes in on him and Dean points at the wing.

“Stop fiddling around, will ya?”

“I …,” Cas starts. “I can not reach it.” His eyes flit to the ground. The twitching stops for a moment, before the wings trembles again.

“Huh. If you want my help, just ask for it,” Dean says. He’s going for grumpy, but most of all he’s irrationally hurt that Cas doesn’t trust him enough to look at his goddamn wing.  

As if on cue, Cas gasps at the mere idea, eyes wide.

Dean opens his palms. “Whatever, dude. I was just trying to help.”

Cas keeps staring at him, and Dean can _hear_ the wheels in that alien brain of his working. Dean should rejoice in Cas being hurt or uncomfortable, but somewhere along the way, he lost the ability to. He would have been dead more than once if it hadn’t been for Cas.

“You may… you may look at it.” Cas sounds like he just granted Dean some unthinkable, gracious gift.

“Gee, thanks, Cas,” Dean grumbles, but goes over and crouches behind the Seraph to inspect the wing. Some of the long feathers on the upper part are askew but he can’t make out what’s under them so he reaches out to…

Cas hisses at the first touch.

“Relax, man. I have to get those feathers out of the way.”

Cas nods, but the tendons of his neck strain with tension. Dean pats the thick lower part of the wings and hopes it’s reassuring. His hands come back shining, coated with an oily substance.

“What the fuck, Cas?”

Cas turns and Dean holds his hand up for him to inspect.

“It cleans and heals,” he says and there’s that tone again that indicates Dean is a bit slow.

Dean gulps down his indignation. He goes back to the task at hand and carefully parts the feathers to find a broad gash that must hurt like a bitch. It’s not healed properly and a closer look confirms Dean’s suspicion.

“There’s still a chunk of your ship sticking in there. I’ll have to pull it out.”

He keeps his hand on Cas in a soothing gesture. It’s a nasty wound and it’s not like Dean can’t relate. Pain he knows, and that must have hurt like hell over the last weeks. Cas might be his enemy, but he can’t help the surge of empathy at the sight. Cas’ head turns and Dean’s sure he sees a flicker of surprise in the inquisitive gaze that meets him.

“Don’t make this awkward, buddy. Just hold still while I get this cleaned up.”

 

***

 

That night Dean dreams about his father. John is sitting at the kitchen table, hands flat on the stained surface. Dean knows what he will say before he’s hearing it.

It’s the morning after his mom died and left only clouded memories and rage behind.

Dean had always wondered why John poured every ounce of energy into his blazing hatred for the Seraphim. He had been in the army for five years before it occurred to him – that his father _had_ to hate something and that under all that agitation, between signing up again and again for a war that had lost all reason and purpose a hundred years ago, the thing he hated most was the fact that he had been unable to save her.

In his dream he’s there, he smells the familiar scents of the kitchen, and John tells him he’s a failure, because he’s too weak to hate like a true Winchester.

 

 

**Week 3**

The jellyfish strikes out of nowhere. It winds around his right leg with surprising strength, burning his skin with fine tentacles. It hurts so awful that Dean is stunned silent for a second before he starts screaming and thrashing and hitting the thing. It loosens its hold and he jumps out of the stream, but his right leg already is crisscrossed with angry red lines.

He hobbles back to the clearing, unable to hold back the tears that stream down his face.

Cas meets him halfway and takes his arm to steady him for the last steps to the hut. Dean lays down with a whimper while Cas opens one of the turtle shells for better lighting. His hands skim softly over the swelling lines and Dean grabs his shirt to cover himself for the inspection. Cas hands are gentle but even the smallest touch hurts like hell.

Dean whimpers and resolution wanders over Cas’ face. He reaches back to the bottom of his wings and covers his hand with oil. Hesitating, he holds the hand up. Dean doesn’t like the idea of Cas putting something that oozes out of his body on him, he doesn’t like it one bit, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that. The pain’s gotten worse somehow. So he nods.

The oil is blessfully cool on the burning wounds. Cas applies it starting on his shin, slowly and methodically working his way up. It feels _divine_. Dean closes his eyes and just revels in the receding pain. A low moan escapes his lips.

Cas’ hand stills on the inside of his thigh.

The air fills with a tense silence and Dean stops breathing. He doesn’t dare move, afraid Cas will take back his hand, the hand that makes him feel so good right now. His thoughts get hazy when he realizes Cas hasn’t moved either. Long moments pass. Dean can’t hear if Cas is breathing at all, because his heart beats furiously against his ribs and in his ears and in his gut.

Cas’ hand moves tentatively.

It applies oil to the last line that – thank god – ends just under his hipbone. Dean lets out a breath, relief and disappointment mingling, and sucks it back in a moment later. Because Cas’ touch does not end where it’s supposed to end. His hand moves on and fuck, Dean isn’t going to say no to this, he can’t _think_ past wanting it with every fiber of his being. His hips lift infinitesimally, but it’s all the invitation Cas needs.

His hand disappears and is back a moment later, pushing the fabric that covers Dean away and – yes – wrapping around his cock. Dean groans and it’s a broken, needy sound.

Cas coats him with oil before he starts jerking him fast and hard with no preamble. Dean’s fingers scramble over the dirt floor, searching for something, anything to hold on to. His ragged breaths are full of whimpers and hitched sighs and he wants to say _more, Cas,_ but he can’t. This is fucked up enough as it is and even if he could bring himself to voice his demand, Cas wouldn’t understand. And so he bites his lip and thrusts into Cas’ slick fist. Hell, if Cas keeps it up, this will be over very soon.

Over his own panting he nearly misses the tiny sound Cas makes.

Dean opens his eyes and finds the Seraph’s rapt gaze on Dean’s swollen cock where it’s vanishing between his fingers. Cas’ mouth is wet and open and his eyes glazed over. If Dean had any doubts left about Seraphs being junkless celibates, he doesn’t have those anymore. The thin fabric of Cas’ pants strains under an impressive erection and Dean’s mouth waters at the sight.

He’s up for fooling around with guys like every other hot-blooded dude but he always preferred supple and soft women. Now he wants to climb Cas’ all-male body, let him fuck his mouth, feel the hard lines and edges – the images tumble into each other and he cries out under the combined impact of his filthy imagination and the tight tunnel of Cas’ fingers.

Cas’ breath stutters and cuts off all together. When Dean looks over again, his eyes are screwed shut and his pants are darkening. That’s the moment his body chooses to let his own orgasm slam into Dean’s spine with the force of sledgehammer. His cock jerks violently in Cas’ hand, and the Seraph watches the white ribbons painting Dean’s chest, jaw slack and eyes burning.

_Holy shit._

If he survives this, he’ll have to leave that part out of his adventure tale.

 

 

**Week 4**

“What I don’t understand is, where do all these stories about your kind being nine feet tall come from?”

“I am what you see.”

“So this isn’t how you really look?”

“This is how I am to you.”

“But the real you is taller and blue and glowing?”

“I don’t understand ‘real’. I am what you see and I am what they see.”

Cas squints at him.

“Hold on a minute, so when you say that I chose for you to be like this – how… are you even a dude?”

“I am what you see,” Cas repeats, clearly distressed now. “Is that wrong?”

Dean knocks his head back against the bark with more force than he aimed for. “No.” He inhales deeply and watches the sun set. His voice drops to a whisper and what he says isn’t meant for Cas’ ears anyway. “No, you’re perfect.”

 

***

 

When there’s a meteor storm that night, Cas closes the distance to where Dean’s pretending to be a asleep and lays down beside him. Dean turns and huddles close, still a sliver of space between them, but Dean can feel Cas’ warmth and he can smell the ozone of Cas’ skin and he drifts to sleep wishing he was braver.

 

 

**Week 5**

The days blend into each other. They hunt and search the area around them in growing circles until they start setting out in the morning and coming back in the dark. There’s no sign of habitation.

Dean writes a gigantic SOS sign into the black sand plane where Cas first saved his life. Cas doesn’t tell him to stop but he clearly thinks it’s a stupid idea. Dean _knows_ it’s a stupid idea but he can’t do nothing.

They fall asleep next to each other every night and drift together in their sleep. Dean wakes up one time and finds them entangled. He feels ridiculously safe and while he’s still only half-conscious he reaches up to touch Cas’ face, turns it and kisses him softly. Cas hums a strange tune when they part that echoes somewhere deep inside Dean.

They don’t mention it in the morning.  

 

***

 

“What will you do when it’s your guys that save us?”

Dean’ sure he will be getting the thoughtful squint, but instead Cas hangs his head. Damn, he can be such an insensitive asshole.

“Oh sorry, is there… is there someone waiting for you?” Dean’s stomach drops, he’s feared that and it’s so goddamn dumb because there never was a future for this, but he soldiers on, puts a smile on that hurts around the edges. “I… I shouldn’t have asked that, man, I’m sorry.”

Cas’ head lifts and there it is, the squint and with it all those foreign concepts swirling around in Cas’ eyes. Dean wants to understand, he wants to put his hands on Cas and be touched by him again with a sudden intensity that’s almost a physical ache. He braces for the rebuff, for hearing about the beautiful winged creature that Cas was meant to share his life with right now…

“I cannot go back,” Cas says instead. “I failed. Who fails does not come back. I am no longer part of the Seraphim.”

“Wait, what? Just because you crashed?”

Cas nods. “Several other warriors died because I failed at my mission. I have lost my place among my kind.”

“And if they find us?”

“They will kill us both.”

 

 

**Week 6**

They hear the rumble of landing ships right after a lousy breakfast. Dean’s up and running before he thinks it through, but remembers to be careful when he comes close to the landing site.

Three army ships twinkle in the yellow light and he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his whole life.

Relief washes through him like warm summer rain, before the realization hits.

He runs back to their clearing, just to find Cas packing his things.

They look at each other for a minute. No words are needed. This is goodbye.

Dean’s chest hurts with the knowledge that he won’t ever see Cas again. The cool blue stare stays on him, unblinking, seemingly unfazed to anyone who doesn’t know him. But Cas’ hands grip the backpack just a little too tight and his shoulders are drawn up as if he’s waiting for a blow. His wings are twitching, restless.

Cas stands and Dean is closing the distance with three long strides. He crowds Cas against the nearest tree without slowing down, his hand is at Cas’ throat, and he doesn’t know where this sudden _anger_ comes from, but it’s there, rising up from somewhere deep inside him. Primal. Desperate. The rage of a Winchester.

Cas lets himself be manhandled. Dean curls his fingers into the tendons on the right side of Cas’ neck and bends his head to mouth at the other side.

“Cas”, he groans, and he can’t say if it’s a plea for mercy or unconditional surrender. He feels Cas’ hands fist into the fabric of his jacket. And then he’s pulled flush against the hard line of Cas’ body so he has to lift his head.

A brutal kiss lands on his slightly open lips and the angle is all wrong, but Dean doesn’t care. This may be the last time he can have this, anything with Cas, and he takes it greedily with teeth and a low growl that’s answered by a hand on his neck, mirroring his own hold.

They must look like fighting animals, he thinks, and it’s fitting because there’s nothing soft about the way he’s ripped open by the thought of leaving Cas.

 

***

 

The undergrowth is whispering with the approach of the soldiers. They’re still far enough away. Cas has time to flee. When the Seraph turns to go, Dean grabs his arm with a sudden revelation. His heart is pounding so fast, he can’t make himself speak for a precious second.

Cas looks back to him, and his stare seems to waver, and something _other_ flickers over his silhouette. Dean grabs the fleeting idea and flings it at Cas.

“Can you influence how you look?”

Cas squints. “I am what you see,” he says, unsure.

“But can you make yourself look a certain way?”

“I never tried.”

“Okay… try to pack away your wings.”

Cas’ eyes close in concentration.

The wings flicker and vanish.

“Now the glow! Don’t think, just do it, Cas.”

Dean turns to a crash behind him.

Sam comes barging onto the clearing. Cold dread fights with the joy of seeing his brother alive. Sam’s eyes dart to a point behind him, before he strides over and crushes Dean in a hug.

Dean sags into his arms, tears spilling freely.

Then Sam tugs free to hold out his hand to Cas. Dean doesn’t wipe away the tears, just stands there with his arms like lead, and takes a deep breath. Whatever comes next, they’ll find a way.

“This is Cas. He’ll come with us.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [procasdeanating](https://procasdeanating.tumblr.com/post/159392698210/deancastropefest-title-the-light-of-falling) on tumblr. Come say hi!


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